


Blanketed

by ZenithMaguire



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, References to Canon-Typical Violence, smut and feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenithMaguire/pseuds/ZenithMaguire
Summary: The wind-down after a number isn't always easy, and this time Finch is dead on his feet, holed up with a taciturn ex-assassin waiting out a storm. He's long since abandoned the concept of a normal day.





	Blanketed

The snow was just starting to fall when they left a somewhat pissed off Carter on the scene ('Cleaning up your damn messes as usual,' she'd said on the phone. They both knew she was relieved as much as anything.) The air was crackling, crystallizing, as they melted away from the aftermath of yet another small, sordid drama, fading into the twilight as the rest of the world had their connections broken, repaired, reshaped. They looked at it all through glass, Harold thought; it might as well be through ice. His boots skittered a little on the slippery sidewalk but he barely faltered. Reese had a firm grip on Finch, steering him (to one of his roosts, Reese had said earlier, when he was in a better mood) and moving a little quicker than they usually would together. Finch didn't have much breath left for talking, but Reese wasn't chatty anyway, his eyes slate grey in the cold light, trained ahead.

The lights went out almost as soon as they crossed the threshold. It had been a supremely exhausting couple of days, tracking the number, Alan Robson, unstable and newly-divorced, who had kidnapped his own child. In the end Harold had been enormously glad to see Reese leave the cowed, broken man for Carter to deal with. At least the little girl had been returned to her mother unharmed, confused at the tears and kisses prompted by her surprise holiday with her dad. The storm had hurried the city home early, the sky a heavy gray-white and the air thickening with snow. They'd made it to the safehouse as the sidewalks grew more treacherous and were stamping snow off their shoes when the block lost power, and Finch cursed the general untimeliness of everything. 

'I suppose that'll mean the water heater's offline too.'

'We'll be ok till the power's fixed. You've got cereal, crackers. Hmm. Juice and longlife milk. Canned stuff.' Reese was squinting into the cupboards in the halflight. He sounded distant, uninterested. 'Flashlight here too, spare batteries. Nothing to worry about.' He flicked the flashlight on, then off, and left it on the counter. 

'I'd much rather be *not worrying* over a nice hot beef chow mein, but I suppose that's out of the question.'

'I could go out,' Reese said, sounding sanguine about rushing out into an oncoming blizzard. 

'No, of course not, you're right. We'll wait it out.' Finch was trying to sound placating, not sure just how much their day had gotten to Reese. 

'Whatever you say.' Reese sat down, wiping melting snow out of his hair, unlacing his shoes before the knots dried tight. 'Probably best to just sleep until it's light.'

'I doubt there'll be any difficulty there.' Harold felt like he'd run a marathon, or walked one at least. 

He was still shaky from the fear that rose up when they'd learned the father still had his service weapon and might be armed, the horror as they'd contemplated the selfish rage of a man who no longer had control of his family. In the end the jackass was messed up, but just pathetic, as Reese had efficiently summarised. Robson had seemed shocked when told to hand over his gun. It had been in his suitcase, not even loaded, stowed with his other valuables with some vague intention of selling it, or so he claimed. They never knew, either of them, what events might spiral into without their intervention. They simply had to trust that the Machine had assessed the possible risks based on its accumulated observations of human behaviour. It seemed in this case their reluctance to place much faith in human nature had been shared by their artificial counterpart. Sometimes Harold felt dizzy at the thought of how much the Machine saw, when even his individual perspective brought him so often to the brink of despair. 

'Want anything to eat?'

'Oh. Just some water please.'

John handed him a glass and got one for himself. Harold didn't even bother to hide the fact that he was taking some painkillers; he drank, then stood up. 

'Mind if I take the flashlight for a minute?'

'Sure.' John handed it to Harold, who took it into the bathroom, setting it pointing up on the shelf by the sink, and closed the door. 

While Harold used the bathroom, splashed his face, and brushed his teeth with a fresh brush from the cabinet, John hunted around for spare blankets. He found one, put it on the bed, and put his gun on the table by an armchair. He draped Harold's scarf over the top of a dining chair to dry out, then gave his own coat a shake, dropping it on the armchair. He took off his jacket, and when Harold emerged he went into the bathroom, leaving Finch undoing his tie and cuffs. Harold got into bed with his shirt on as an extra layer, knowing there would be something in the closet he could wear the next day. 

John came out and put the flashlight, turned off, next to Harold's glasses. 

'I'll take the chair.'

'What? Of course you won't. You've been running around all day. Besides, you'll freeze with no covers.'

'My coat'll do fine.'

'It must be soaking wet, you'll catch pneumonia. Don't be absurd. There's plenty of space.'

John's eyes were reflections on black in the low light. When Reese was eerily subdued like this Harold found himself, well, not frightened. Definitely not that. It was, however, unnerving, like being watched over by a tame wolf. Or not so tame. 

John shrugged, turned and shucked off his pants and shirt, got in the other side. Harold seemed appeased by this, fidgeting further into his pillows. He was apparently still thinking though. After a minute or two he said, quietly, 'I do sometimes think - that is. I'm well aware our work will always be dangerous, and strenuous for you, but I find on numbers like this, I worry about the impact of the nature the case.'

'We found the girl, Finch. We got her back to her mom. That's all that matters.' John's voice was flat, affectless. 

'All the same...' Harold didn't want to put into words the worry that had hung over them both while Lottie Robson had been missing. They both knew the statistics. 'I do often wish I didn't have to expose you to these kinds of situations.' 

'So you could carry the burden all by yourself?' John turned, and Harold could feel his focus, almost hear him smiling in the dark. 'You're already carrying the whole world on your shoulders, Finch. Don't worry about me.'

A useless injunction, Harold thought. Sometimes he did little else. He sighed. 

'Get some rest, Finch.'

'Good night, John.' 

He settled down and looked at Reese's profile, the sharp nose and cheekbones, the hollow of his eyesocket, firm-set lips and heavy brows. Harold wondered how on earth he was going to sleep next to this grim man who might as well be a carved knight holding a broadsword on a medieval tomb, but then the medication started to relax his muscles and his mind obediently followed. Thoughts became vague, fuzzy, and he realised he was watching Reese with his eyes closed, no longer seeing him in reality but only in his mind's eye, a graven figure of strength and sorrow, gazing upwards unseeing, still but not in repose. There was an urge to reach out that made no connection with his limbs: they had simply sunk away, immovable and unfeeling, no longer in the equation. The image of John lying in his silent isolation dimmed as well, and Harold fell into the dark.


End file.
